Girland decided that Rosnold’s set-up was of better taste and smelt more of money than Benny’s exotic studio.
As he was surveying the scene, a door facing him opened and an elderly man, wearing a black hat and a light-grey overcoat came into the lobby. He moved with the arrogance of the very rich. In his right gloved hand, he carried a bulky envelope. His long, thin aristocratic face, the lines around the weak, sensual mouth, the smudges under his baggy eyes made him look like an ageing Casanova. His satisfied expression swiftly changed to startled apprehension as he saw Girland. He gave Girland a quick, uneasy glance, then moving quickly, he left the lobby, clutching his envelope and Girland heard him entering the elevator.
‘Yes?’
Girland glanced around.
A woman stood in the doorway, regarding him. She was tall, probably in her early thirties, slim, dark with a heart-shaped face that could have been a tinted plaster mask.
‘Mr Rosnold please,’ Girland said with his most charming smile.
The smile bounced off her like a golf ball slammed against a wall.
‘Mr Rosnold is not here.’
‘You mean he doesn’t work here any more?’
‘He is not here.’
‘Then where do I find him?’
Again the dark eyes went over Girland, examining his clothes. From the bleak expression that showed in her eyes, the woman thought nothing of him.
‘Do you want a sitting?’
The automatic doors swung open and another elderly, rich looking man came in. He hesitated for a brief moment at the sight of Girland, then gave the woman a wide, toothy smile.
‘Ah, Mile Lautre, how well you are looking.’ He again glanced uneasily at Girland.
The woman stood aside and smiled. The plaster mask cracked for a moment, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Please go in, monsieur. I won’t be a moment.’
The elderly man slid around her and passed through the open doorway.
‘If you will give me your name, I will tell Mr Rosnold you have called.’
‘It’s urgent. When will he be back?’. Girland asked.
‘Not before Monday. May I have your name?’
‘It’s very urgent. Where can I contact him?’
The woman stared at him. She was as hostile as a barbed-wire fence. ‘Your name please?’
‘Tom Stag. Mr Rosnold and I have business together.’
‘I’ll tell Mr Rosnold when he returns.’ The woman began to back through the doorway. ‘Perhaps you will telephone for an appointment on Monday,’ then she closed the door.
Girland left and crossed to the elevator. He thumbed the call button and while he waited, his mind was busy. When the cage stopped before him, he got in and went down to the ground floor. Before leaving the elevator, he took out his wallet and extracted two ten franc notes. He walked over to the concierge’s window and tapped.
A fat, elderly woman, her hair in steel curlers, a shawl around her shoulders opened the window and regarded him with that stony, indifferent stare that most Paris concierges cultivate.
‘Excuse me,’ Girland said and turned on charm. I am sorry to disturb you, madame. I want to see Mr Rosnold very urgently.’
‘Fourth floor,’ the concierge snapped and prepared to shut the window.
‘Perhaps you could help me.’ Girland put the two ten franc notes on the shelf of the window, keeping a finger on them.
The woman looked at the notes, then at Girland. She became visibly less hostile.
‘I’m sure you are busy,’ Girland went on. ‘Of course, I expect to pay for your time.’ He took his fingers off the notes. ‘I’ve already been to the fourth floor. I am told Mr Rosnold is away. I need to see him urgently. Do you happen to know where he is?’
‘Didn’t you ask his secretary, monsieur?’ the concierge asked, eyeing the notes that lay between them.
‘I did, but she was evasive. You see, madame, Mr Rosnold owes me a sum of money. If I don’t find him quickly and persuade him to pay me, I shall be in trouble.’ Girland turned on his boyish smile. ‘But perhaps you can’t help me.’ He extended his finger, but the concierge got there first. She drew the two notes out of Girland’s reach and palmed them.
I know where he is,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘His secretary had a letter from him yesterday. I know his handwriting and the stamp interested me. The Alpenhoff Hotel, Garmisch… that’s where he is. When he left, he told me he would be away a month.’ ‘When did he leave, madame?’ ‘Last Monday.’
‘You are very kind… thank you, madame.’ T hope you get your money, monsieur,’ she said. ‘He is not a nice gentleman.’
Her old fat face crinkled into a grimace. ‘He is mean.’
Girland again thanked her and walked out onto the busy street. He glanced at his watch. It was 16.20 hrs. He decided to visit Sammy’s Bar and talk to Jack Dodge, the second lead Benny had given him.
He found Sammy’s Bar on Rue Berry off Avenue des Champs Elysees: a typical, dimly lit bar like so many bars that grow like mushrooms around any tourist haunt. He pushed open the door and walked into a long narrow room, the bar to the left with the standard stools, to the right were banquettes and tables. At this hour the place was empty except for the barman who was browsing over a racing sheet, Biro in hand, a look of concentration on bis handsome face.
As soon as Girland saw him, he guessed he must be Jack Dodge. This man with his sandy-coloured hair, his sun lamp complexion, his bulky shoulders and the shadow of dissipation under his close-set eyes looked the part of a stallion: a sensual lump of muscle and flesh: whose brain and mind were as small as his sexuality was enormous.
The barman glanced up, then pushed the racing sheet away. He gave Girland a smirking grin and placed big hands on the bar counter.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘What is your pleasure?’
Girland hoisted himself on a stool.
‘Rye whisky and ginger ale.’
‘Yes, sir… a nice reviving drink.’
‘That’s what I need. Have one with me.’
I won’t say no.’ The barman made two drinks with a lot of unnecessary flourishes. ‘First one today.’
He placed one of the glasses before Girland and lifted the other.
‘Sante.’
They drank, then Girland asked casually, ‘Are you Jack Dodge?’
The barman lifted a sandy eyebrow.
‘That’s me. Can’t say I’ve seen you before. I have a good memory for faces.’
"That’s good news. I want you to remember a girl’
I get a lot of girls in here. I won’t swear I can remember them all. It’s the men I concentrate on.’ He grinned slyly. ‘They pick up the tab.’
I understand. Well, never mind about the girl for the moment. Are you still happy working for Pierre Rosnold?’ Girland asked, his dark eyes on Dodge’s face.
If he had leaned across the bar and punched Dodge in the eye, he wouldn’t have got a bigger reaction.
Dodge reared back. His close-set eyes went blank with shock. The blood moved out of his face leaving his skin blotchy under the sun lamp complexion, but he recovered quickly. For a brief moment, when Girland could almost hear his brain creaking, he stood motionless, then pulling himself together, he eyed Girland with sudden suspicion.